Death of a Nation
by Skysha-Tranqui
Summary: [ON HIATUS]Harry defeats Voldemort - kind of, but it doesn't go exactly according to plan. This is the aftermath of that battle, with no heroes and no hope. Or so they think. Will contain slash eventually. harrydraco. r&r please.
1. The setting and beginning

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or any of it's characters, so don't sue me!

Pairing: Probably my fav. - H/D - eventually.

Plot: Harry 'kind of' defeated the Dark Lord (voldy), but in a way nobody had even suspected he would.

This is about the repercussions of what happened, and how people begin to cope with these results.

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Chapter One - Dicxto

Dust hovered in the air, creating a film of grey over the city of Los Angeles. The sound of brakes squealing broke the silence, as another car was no doubt stolen. Bricks which used to be red, but now reflected the same dismalness coating the entire city, had been used to make up the walls which split the city up into its different sections.

It was night-time, but the grey hanging over the city made it almost impossible to tell the difference, indeed the _only_ difference was that the shadows were deeper during the night.

Scratching noises sounded, as some of the only remaining wildlife slunk by. 

A shadow moved, coalescing into a young male as he stepped away from the crumpled building he had been hiding out in.

Breath sighed out in long gush, creating a stream of clear space, as the air displaced the dust momentarily. The space was soon refilled, and yet none of the dirt ever landed, just remained floating in the air, moving out of the way as soon as anyone tried to touch it.

A head tilted back, eyes sliding shut as the dark figure stretched luxuriously. His spine cracked, and he shrugged his shoulders as he limbered up for movement.

A siren sounded in the distance, the wailing drifting towards the man like the haunting cry of a phoenix, long dead. Stilling his movements, the man's head tilted, and he turned in a semi-circle, as though he was trying to track where the sound had come from.

Then he was moving. Turning to his left he ran, arms swinging, legs pumping. Reaching the end of the 'road', he immediately took the corner, going left again, and deeper into a shadowland of demolished buildings. Rubble littered the streets, and a pile up of cars cut off his escape route. 

Not even slowing down, the man took the obstacle at a dead run, easily making the leap, up and over. He landed on both feet, and continued running, not wavering, and not giving any indication about whether or not he'd put any effort into the feat.

The wail of sirens came again, closer this time, as the police vehicle turned onto the blocked off road.

The car stopped just short of the pile up, and one cop got out. Lightly jogging over to the nearest car, he stood on his tiptoes and peered into the gloom beyond. Shaking his head, he turned and gestured to his partner, before turning his attention back to the obstacle.

Heaving a heartfelt sigh, Officer Mathews gripped the roof of the car with one hand, and clambered onto the bonnet as gracefully as he could, which wasn't very.

Cursing under his breath, his partner quickly grabbed the car radio and muttered a terse code into it, then leaped out of the car and followed his partner into the gloom.

The two men advanced quickly, sticking to the main street, and avoided lingering near the darker alleys and side streets. One of the officers though he saw something move out of the corner of his eye, and quickly turned. When he saw there was nothing there, he swallowed uneasily then turned his head back around, in time to walk into a chunk of building which had fallen into the road some time ago.

The other officer barked out a laugh, as his partner floundered on the ground, cursing. Eventually he went to help his friend, neither of them noticing the glowing green eyes that observed them from the nearby shadows.

The young man who had fled the oncoming police moments earlier, peered out of the shadows which hid him, watching with scorn the blundering fools _he_ had resorted to sending after him.

With a bounty on his head worth several small fortunes, there had been plenty of people volunteering to bring him in - alive. Not doubting for an instant why _he_ had requested that he be alive, the young man had shed his indentity, leaving his old self in the ashes of the dead and dying, sliding into the shadows of the future with the ease of one long gone, finally returning.

The first few had been hard, very hard. They hadn't been particularly good at their job, as bounty hunters, but then again, he'd never had to deal with being hunted before. Dispatching them had been difficult - not because it was beyond his capabilities - but because the men hadn't done anything to him, he hadn't even known their names. The need to survive had taken over before he could do anything stupid, like hand himself over to them, and he had killed them as easily as the others. 

Then _he_ had upped the ante, promising more and more wealth and power to the one who captured him. More skilled and better-trained people stepped forward. Not just bounty hunters now, mercenaries and hitmen, assassins and professional trackers. They provided more of a challenge, but that first experience of being hunted had taught him a lot, and he didn't hesitate over death anymore, that piece of him was long gone.

Eventually the level of training in those who came after him had dropped, as the more skilled were killed off. Now, _he_ was beginning to run out of applicants for the contract, and was resorting to using the police force - keeping an alert out for him, 24/7, in the hopes that he would slip up and be spotted. The man suspected that _he_ was waiting for a mistake to be made, so that _he_ could send a contingent of killers after him - resorting to overkill as the only way of capturing him, alive.

Killing the two men in front of him would be the safest course of action, given that they could have caught a glimpse of him. He was, however, pretty sure they hadn't had a chance to do so, and leaving a trail of bodies wasn't exactly subtle. Leaving them to stumble around in the rubble, he stepped back again, allowing the shadows to swallow him as he moved to his destination. After all, it wouldn't be very good to let _him_ catch him now, not when he finally had a goal, a mission, a way to atone for everything he had done.

****

Sorry, kind of weird beginning - again. I seem to have made that a habit, hope you readers don't mind too much. Anyway, you've probably guess who I was talking about in this chapter, but that's okay! It wasn't meant to be _that_ obscure.

If you're having trouble trying to imagine what the place is like, just think the city in Final Fantasy (video/film), where the woman collects the plant from at the beginning.

R&R, please? 


	2. The politics and main players

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or any of it's characters, so don't sue me!

Pairing: Probably my fav. - H/D - eventually.

Plot: Harry 'kind of' defeated the Dark Lord (voldy), but in a way nobody had even suspected he would.

This is about the repercussions of what happened, and how people begin to cope with these results.

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Chapter Two - Frikosto

The town wasn't what it used to be. That was putting it mildly, to say the least. After the Spread of Fire, nothing had ever been the same. The sky was perpetually grey, if not black. No clouds could be seen, not even during its lighter moments. The grey ash which floated everywhere, was reminiscent of that issued from a volcano, but as it never landed on anything, including people, there was no danger to be had from inhalation.

The Spread of Fire. Funny name. The best anybody could think of at the time, and since then it had just…stuck. There was so much else to worry about, that people had long since given up on thinking it a crappy title, and now it was something only whispered about during the lightest times of the day. If people hadn't lost loved ones during it, the remembered terror of the event was enough to keep people from casually uttering it.

Reorganising had taken priority of course, and the governments and local leaders world-wide had immediately attempted to do so, initiating damage control as only they could. 

Unfortunately, it took the criminals and gangsters of the world a lot less time to get organised than the official authorities, and they struck with deadly accuracy once they realised they could.

All of the major leaders had been hit only hours after the original disaster, the minor authorities, such as; police, doctors, firemen, secret service, rallied as quickly as possible, but the carnage had already been added to. With no major rulers existing, the world looked like a very dangerous place to be, and the people still standing adapted to the situation as quickly as they could.

By the time _he_ had taken power, _he_ was too late. The majority of people had fled, escaping into the very shadows that now terrified them so. Word of mouth had replaced the more modern equivalents, with a speed and ease that showed it had never completely disappeared. A good thing though, as it enabled people to keep up to date, despite all modern communications being destroyed. The people heard when the leaders were taken out, they heard when the criminals tried to seize control, and they also heard when someone managed it.

Despite _his_ protestations to _not_ being a criminal, too much had happened too soon for the people to so easily align their trust to someone new. So they vanished. Some had fled in the aftermath of the Spread of Fire, but many more slipped out quietly in the dead of night later on. The trickle of people was so small, and so steady, that it wasn't until it was too late that _he_ realised just how many people had vanished from under his reign. 

Immediately after the realisation, security had been tightened. Employing the services of police, firemen, assassins, mercenaries, and any other people _he_ could lay _his_ hands on, _he_ ordered them split the countries up. No one could use what transport they had left, and no one could cross borders without permission directly from _him_.

Following a trail so minute as to be invisible to all but _him_, _he_ had crossed an ocean, setting up _his_ base here. In Los Angeles. 

Leaving the other countries to their own devices was risky business, but _he_ had lieutenants _he_ trusted, and _he_ made weekly trips to the worst countries, calming any mutinies he came across.

Unfortunately for _him_, the minute trail had vanished completely once within the city. Several of _his_ employees had ventured the guess that it had been a trick - despite not understanding what it was _he_ was trying to find. Afterall, they argued, if the trail could be erased so easily, why hadn't it been erased before whatever it was went to Los Angeles?

A few public…demonstrations, had put a stop to the questioning of _his_ methods, and shown those remaining what kind of a ruler they had obtained.

No longer able to sense what _he_ was after, _he_ had had to resort to the old-fashioned approach. Under the guise of making the countries safer, _he_ had ordered all towns and cities to be split up into sections, starting with Los Angeles, and radiating outwards.

Walls of stone had been hastily erected, with all of the remaining citizens forced to partake of the task. Working from the moment the sky even _appeared_ to lighten slightly, to the moment it was indisputable that it was dark again, the people had been downgraded to slaves, forced to engineer their own captivity. 

Those who had escaped early on tried their best to help, tearing down as much of the stone and mortar as they could whilst the workers had to stop for the 'night'. This seemed to work at the beginning, slowing down the progress so that it went at a snails crawl - with the previous days work having to be redone at every rising. Then _he_ had been informed of the problem, and armed guards were set to watch over the walls whilst the workers rested. Several 'free' people had been caught and thrown into holding, before the people gave up their rebellion, and the walls were built unhindered.

Expending the majority of _his_ energy on finding what _he_ wanted, _he_ barely had any time left over for _his_ 'people'. What little time was left, was spent quelling uprisings, and rooting out insubordination among _his_ own ranks. This no doubt left _him_ very drained, which probably explains why _he_ agreed to the proposition presented to _him_ by the gangsters and criminals roaming free. 

A partnership. That was what they said it would. One, which _he_ just so happened to be in charge of. All business deals had to passed before _him_, and in exchange for some of those deals being given the go-ahead, _he_ would gain their services, in any task that needed doing. 

The extra meat no doubt came in handy with controlling the people, and those criminals had connections with other criminals. Extending a hand to the loners, they offered them a choice. Pledge your services to _him_, or be killed. Free dental.

Soon enough those that lived under _his_ rule fell into gangs. A council of gang leaders ensured the gangs behaved, and family units vanished, transforming one group of people into several gang members. Those who didn't belong to a gang were tracked down, and forced to pick a group to belong to. Those who refused were thrown into holding, a.k.a; prison.

It sounded organised in theory, but the reality was a lot more haphazard and cutthroat than that. A gang is still a gang - known for chaos and destruction. Those that were weak were anybodies meat, unless tougher gang members felt the urge to intervene. Most didn't. Scavenging, and fighting became the way of the world, the more food or scars you had the more respect you earned. In theory. Yet again, it was slightly different in reality. True, you gained more respect in your gang for those things, but in the eye of other gangs you posed more of a threat, and as such many were often assassinated before they could reach a position of power in their gangs, at which point they would have become too powerful to risk assassinating.

Those who lived in the shadows were little better. Ragged, motley groups of people ran together, never staying in one place for too long, for fear of discovery. Unlike the gangs, they did protect one another, but all strangers were treated with suspicion and often aggression. You had to prove yourself before you were welcomed into any group, and the only way of proving yourself was to help them if they got in trouble.

That task had a nasty habit of being deadly, so all it generally got you was a quick mark of respect before the group moved on. The majority of people stuck with those they'd grouped up with when they first ran, or else tried their luck on their own. Encounters were kept to a minimum, with everybody feeling safer just avoiding others.

Despite their understandable need for secrecy, the people who lived in the shadows had understood the need to know what was happening in the world, and as such had gone to great lengths to set up a link of informants. 

Some of the people had family who had been forced to join the gangs, and these provided the link between that world and theirs. Brave, young people had volunteered to be the bridge between the two, sneaking into the gang's world, in order to contact their informants and see if there was any news. 

The method for spreading what that news was, was very unorganised though, due mainly to their dislike of staying in the same place all of the time. Word had reached most people's ears that that was all about to change. Someone had had the bright idea of setting up a secure meeting place for all those who survived in the shadows, and organising monthly meetings there. 

Cutting off his musings on the matter, the man in the shadows returned his wandering attention to the sight before him. 

Rebuilding the cities had seemed like a waste of time to _him_, and due to the extent of the damage caused by the Spread of Fire, it was probably true. So, instead, _he_ had relocated all of the people under his rule to the areas damaged the least. Half-hearted patching-up had been made, before _he_ had given the rubble up for lost, and promptly banned his people from wandering around in it, claiming it a safety hazard. Which it was. Still, not all of it was unsalvageable, but the buildings that did remain were so deep among the ruins, that _he_ had cordoned them off with the rest anyway.

Directly in front of the man stood one such building. Once upon a time it was probably a hotel, judging from its height, and the elaborate stonework decorating the front. The left side of the building faced the direction leading out of the disaster area, and that was the side that had been damaged the most. Anybody coming from outside of the ruins would see the crumbling brickwork, and the gaping holes in the building, and give it up for destroyed. No doubt a tactical choice, then, this building, and it looked fairly easy to defend as well. Only one clear entrance at the front, but no doubt lots of bolt holes hidden at the back. 

Doubt and reluctance pounded at the man, and for a moment he welcomed the torment. Shaking his head minutely, he took a shaking breath, before his features hardened in resolution. He _had_ to go through with it. He had a purpose now, and he needed to make things right again. If everything was happening the way it was here, he dreaded thinking how much worse it must be in the other countries where there was even fewer signs of authority.

Fingers combed dusty black hair, rumpling it enough to shelter his features from view. Hands tweaked black jeans and black shirt, ensuring the daggers where completely hidden. Whilst he was sure nobody would be foolish enough to arrive completely unarmed, he didn't want to cause an unnecessary ruckus by flashing the weapons by accident.

Slipping down from his perch on the roof of the building opposite the meeting place, he landed in a light crouch, then cautiously approached the building. Ignoring the entrance, he made for the left side of the building, navigating the scattered debris with silent steps.

Reaching the point where the building became stable again, the man listened carefully, following the faint sound of voices until he had ascertained approximately where in the building the meeting was being held. Moving away from there, he searched for a way into the other half of the hotel, checking for guards before he then made his way to where the voices had been.

The corridor he found himself in was lined with dust, but none of the unusual dust that coated the air outside was present, kept out by the roof and walls. Footprints littered the ground, a clear indication he was heading in the right direction. He would definitely have to make sure someone brought that up during the meeting. Not only was it proof that people had been there, recently, but it would also give _him_ a rough estimate of how many people had been there. It wasn't much of a leap past that to figure out they had been holding a meeting of some kind, and from there that they were getting organised. Definitely needed to be mentioned.

Following the wooden panelling, he couldn't help feeling that he wasn't meant to be here. After spending so many years being hunted and hiding in decrepit piles of rubble, to find himself standing in something so…together, was almost like being in the twilight zone.

A door stood at the end of the corridor, wood still managing to gleam despite the gloom coating the place due to the absence of light. 

Reaching out, he lightly turned the door handle, half expecting it to fall off in his hand, like so many things had before. The door still worked though, and his light touch was enough to make it swing open, framing his form in the doorway.

The sound of voices had grown louder as the door opened, but at the sight of his dark-clad figure, the noise immediately cut off, almost strangled by the suddenness of it.

"Sorry I'm late." His voice held no hint that the apology was meant, but the mere fact that he had said it was enough to make a couple of people start to relax.

Stepping forward from the rest of the people gathered in little groups around the large room, came a large man with a small, dainty woman at his side. Taking in the man's air of purpose, he came to the conclusion that this must be at least one of the people in charge of the meeting. The confidence with which he carried himself, bespoke of a capable fighter, and the man was probably the leader of a group of 'shadow' people.

"And you are?" The sound of suspicion was clearly evident behind the tone of false civility, and the man's muscles tensed automatically in preparation of a fight.

"A wanderer, like yourselves. I heard tell of your meeting, and thought to come and offer my services. If I was mistaken, I will gladly take my leave…" Not waiting for a response, he turned to exit the room. This had been a bad idea anyway. What could he accomplish with their help, that he couldn't on his own? Sure the company would have been a novelty, but it wasn't like he wasn't used to the solitude by now. Besides, it was a lot safer that way. It any of them figured out who he was…

The small woman reached out to catch my arm, "Wait!" flying from her lips. At the movement the man unconsciously swung into action, twisting away from the hand, and whipping out a blade.

Realising just in time, he stopped the sharp metal a bare inch before it impacted with her throat. Mentally cursing his slip, nothing of his inner battle showed on his face. A moment passed in silence, as the room's occupants struggled to catch up with events. Winning against his instincts, he carefully withdrew his dagger from the woman's delicate throat, sheathing it so quickly none of the watchers could make out where he had put it.

"Sorry, again." Dipping his head slightly in apology, he made to exit the room again. 

"Hold up young 'un! How did you get in without the guards noticing you?"

Turning back slightly, he dared to risk looking the other man in the eye. "I came from the left. I have a problem with front doors." Lifting his shoulder in a half-shrug, the closest to casual he came, he ignored the look of shock that crossed the man's face at the sight of his emerald green eyes.

"You came to offer your services, huh?" Nodding at the question, he waited as the man seemed to turn something over in his head. "Stella, what do you think?"

The delicate woman, whose throat the man had almost cut, pondered the question silently, then nodded, a small smile breaking out on her face. Looking between the man and the woman for a moment, he hesitated before stepping away from the hall, further into the room. 

Peeking up at him from light blue eyes, the woman smiled shyly at him, before heading back to where she'd been before he'd entered the room. The silence prevailed for a while longer, but people started talking amongst themselves again when the larger man ushered him further in the room. 

Walking through the groups, he ignored the strange looks he garnered, completely taking back the idea that he'd missed being around other people. Resisting the urge to bolt, he placed himself in the corner farthest away from the door, wrapping the shadows tighter around him, as he attempted to fade from people's view. The chatter lasted a while longer, and he silently took in his surroundings as much as he could without moving.

The room had obviously been used either as a ballroom, or to host meetings, before the Spread of Fire had driven people away. Wood panelling ran around the room, as it had in the corridor. Grimy paint, which looked like it used to be a light shade of brown, although it was impossible to tell anymore, covered the walls. Big and spacious, the room had a carpet, also of indeterminable colour, on which rested several wooden tables and chairs. 

Some people were sat at the tables, other huddled in groups around the room. All held the same feeling of nervous anticipation, as they struggled to find a balance between their cynicism and their new-found hope.

At the head of the room was a long table with chairs behind it, looking reminiscent of the table of a judging panel. The man and women, Stella, were standing just in front of the table, talking to some people he couldn't see from his position. At a guess though, they were probably the other people who had thought of setting this meeting up.

Eventually Stella broke away from the huddle, and turned to address the occupants of the room.

"If I can have everybody's attention, please? I'd just like to introduce you to the people who put this idea in motion, then we'll start the meeting. I know I for one don't want to stay in one place for too long, so we'll try to make it as quick as possible." Pausing for any comments, she motioned to one of the people behind her. "First, this is Steven. I know quite a lot of you have already met him at one point or another, but for those of you who don't he came up with the idea of having informants among the gangs and looks after my group - Sleita."

A few people murmured their acknowledgement of the man who had challenged him, and he mentally sighed to himself. At least the biography was slightly condensed, who knew how long it would have been otherwise? Afterall, the man was apparently a veritable hero to these people.

"This is someone else you all know, or at least know _of_. Draco. Head of our spies in the gangs, he is also the closest one to out 'sovereign', having worked his way up through the ranks."

At her gesture someone stepped forward from the group behind her, revealing his identity to the crowd before him, and putting himself in danger of an assassination attempt. Incredibly stupid thing to do really, as anybody in this room could be a spy as well, only for the wrong side.

All this and more ran through his mind, but the body leaning against the wall, in a faux casual manner, gave away none of his feelings. And with his eyes half-closed, it looked more like he was going to sleep rather than listening, and scanning the crowd for any sign of a spy. Something he'd gotten rather good at over the years.

The blond man at the front of the room swept the crowd with his icy grey eyes, a small smile of acknowledgement softening his features at the gasps of amazement from the people. It probably wasn't everyday that they were introduced to such a gorgeous guy, and then told he risked his life daily in the gang lifestyle, not just in the daily fights that broke out in the ranks, but as a spy there as well. Probably they deserved their amazement.

Unfortunately though, their open expressions of surprise made it quite impossible to pick out any traitors, as everybody was wearing surprisingly similar looks on their faces.

The small, downward movement of someone's hand, was the only warning he got.

Whipping both daggers, he flung one with deadly accuracy, and held the other in a ready pose at his hip.

Silence fell over the room, and people slowly drew back like an ebbing tide. Everybody, bar one, was looking at his target, watching as the man on the floor gasped, gagging on the knife sticking into his throat. The gun lay on the carpet of indeterminable colour, the man having dropped it when the dagger had struck him.

Grey eyes as cold-looking as winter, watched the man standing in the shadows, an evaluating look hiding in their depths.

When no other assassins made a move, everybody simply staring in shock at the writhing figure on the floor, he moved out of the shadows. Stepping towards the crowd of unwilling spectators, he noted how most started at his appearance, and realised he had drawn the shadows around himself maybe too tightly. Oh, well, being unnoticed could only be a good thing, what with the bounty on his head.

Crouching by the man's side, he reached out for the dagger and gripped the handle. Ignoring the shock radiating from the rest of the people in the room, he twisted the handle slightly, knowing with the ease of practise just what to do.

"Are there any more in here?"

A cry of pain strangled off in the man's throat, and he stared up with shock in his gaze. Twisting a bit more, he watched as the rationality came flooding back into the man's eyes with the pain.

"N…nno…more…"

Hearing what he needed to hear, the man ripped his dagger out of the other man's throat, ignoring the geyser of blood which spurted out of the wound. 

Shocked gasps, and the sounds of someone throwing up met his action, but he ignored them all in favour of wiping his blade clean on the dying man's shirt. Re-sheathing the weapons, he rose to his feet. Making a makeshift bandage out of the man's tie, he quickly stopped the bleeding, and hefted the man onto his shoulder in a fire-man's lift.

"Excuse me a moment."

Nobody made a move to stop him, and he took advantage of their shock to get out of the building. Exiting the same way he had entered, he broke out into a fast jog as soon as he hit the street. Calling the shadows to his aid, he ran, hidden from all view, and picking up speed as he moved.

Almost at his destination, he gently laid the injured man down on the ground, and checked for any patrols. Seeing the coast was clear, he picked his burden up with one hand, and moved forwards again, the other hand hovering near his daggers should the situation change.

Placing the knifed man down on the steps leading to the gang headquarters in this city, he removed the man's tie from the wound, letting the blood drip down onto the stone steps beneath him. Ignoring the gargling noises of desperation issuing from the man's torn throat, he removed one of the daggers from his chest.

A quick downward thrust ended the man's life, splitting the heart in two, and ripping his front open in the process. Despite being dead, the man's blood continued to pour out of his wounds, spreading in a pool around him. Dodging the incriminating liquid, he wiped his blade off again, then headed back to the meeting, satisfied the message was clear and brutal enough for _him_.

****

Hello! I hope that was as good as the first chapter, but I can't really tell - too biased! ^_^ I chose the city mainly because of what I read and watch, you know? Angel (Los Angeles), Dark Angel (was Seattle), Charmed (San Francisco - I think), etc. I guess I picked Los Angeles because it is one of the most well-known cities or whatever in America, and I just decided on spur of the moment. 

If you think - wrecked, like Seattle in Dark Angel, you'll get the kind of thing I mean with all the bad guys in control, but it's more derelict than that as well. I can't really explain it, so I hope my writing is descriptive enough.

R&R, please? I love hearing from everybody, and those who reviewed me for my biggest fanfic 'How to tame a dragon' were soo supportive about a bas**** review I got, it really cheered me up! *virtual chocolates to all - 'cause I feel like dancing*


	3. The trouble with relying on people

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or any of it's characters, so don't sue me!

Pairing: Probably my fav. - H/D - eventually.

Plot: Harry 'kind of' defeated the Dark Lord (voldy), but in a way nobody had even suspected he would.

This is about the repercussions of what happened, and how people begin to cope with these results.

Chapter Three - Sugokil

A light, feminine voice came from behind him, causing him to involuntarily tense. "What do you think?"

Recognising Stella, Draco forced a stiff smile onto his face, refraining from pointing out her obvious death wish. Twice in one night she had 'snuck up' on seasoned, paranoid, killers. He could understand her sneaking up on him, as she knew he had enough control to not attack before verifying who was there, but to do so with a perfect stranger…It had almost gotten her killed, and would have too if the stranger hadn't pulled back at the last second.

Her light blue eyes noted the false expression of happiness on his face as she moved up to his side, and she was quick to narrow them in reprimand. Giving up the pretense, Draco sighed deeply, running a casual hand through hair which had remained white-blond, no matter how often he thought it should have turned grey by now.

"He's a skilled fighter, obviously. His reactions with you earlier show that." Grey eyes flicked sideways, disapproval of her actions evident in their depths. Looking back out at the land of rubble beneath him, Draco tuned out everything else as he attempted to pin down what his instincts were trying to tell him.

"I don't know," Playing idly with his hands, he ran a finger over the band of silver on his right thumb, ruminating on something lost. "He stayed. Once the traitor was dealt with…and I think he listened. Whether he plans to help us because he wants the same things we do, or for reasons of his own I don't know, but I do know it will be his choice. He is not like the others here, waiting to be led."

"Hmm," Stilling his hands with her own, Stella stared down at his callused fingers thoughtfully, unwittingly gazing at the ring which nobody but Draco was able to see.

"He is more talented than the others. It is true we all have trained fighters, how else would our groups survive? Yet, he displays an affinity with the blade I have never seen before." Not lifting her gaze from the silver on which it rested, her blue eyes took on a glazed look, as she reached for answers beyond the normal.

"Keep him close, he will save us all."

Shivering at the display of her powers, Draco distantly remembered a time when such a display would only be greeted with mild curiosity, if that. Yet in this time, such a mild usage of the sight would have Stella locked up in a heartbeat, and then forced to endure god only knows what horrors. All because of one incident, which occurred years ago now.

Snapping out of her brief trance, Stella looked at Draco expectantly, waiting for him to tell her what she'd 'seen'. That being the main problem for seer's - they never remembered what they themselves had 'seen', and often had to depend upon someone else to inform them of what they'd said.

"Yeah, we need his help."

"Oh, good!" Clapping her hands together briskly, she jumped to her feet to go and tell the others on the council the decision, briefly reminding Draco of the late Hermione Granger when she'd found out something new.

Shaking his head to rid himself of his strange funk, Draco looked away from Stella's disappearing figure, and returned his contemplating gaze to the streets. Just in time to see a shadowy figure detach itself from the building Draco was on top of, and head back into the maze of rubble. "What the…where is he going?"

Making a spur of the moment decision, Draco stood up from his rooftop perch, and made his way over to the crumbling side of the building. Climbing down was easy for Draco's honed body, and he was soon following the dark figure he just knew was the newcomer.

Over lumps of grey stone, whispering soundlessly across crunchy rubble, Draco followed the figure as it headed deeper into the maze of ruins than even the 'shadow groups' dared to tread. Whilst it was no doubt safer from the gang's, as it was further from their reach, it was also more dangerous, as the deeper you went the more derelict the buildings became.

Curiosity spurred Draco onwards, even as the deeper need to obtain the stranger's help propelled necessitated it. Watching the figure with eyes used to observing people for weaknesses and small idiosyncrasies, Draco found himself struck dumb by the effortless grace with which the figure moved. The economy of motion so precise not one piece of stone became dislodged by his tread. Such skill denoted to a lifetime of practise, and yet the stranger was young, too young to have put in the amount of time required to have such control over himself.

Glancing down as he traversed a lump of stone and mortar that used to be the side of a building, Draco hunched down nearer the stone to keep noise to a minimum, and present less of his body for a possible target. Pausing at the top, keen grey eyes rose once more to ascertain his quarry's position. Only to find his quarry had vanished.

A vague panic rose within, as he realised there was an acute possibility he'd never find the stranger again. Then that would be yet another prophecy he had ruined, and more people would suffer because of his actions.

Stretching out his right leg, Draco felt his way down to the next foothold, determined to continue in the direction he'd last seen the person go. As his foot touched upon something solid in the darkness, a whisper of sound came from his left. Snapping his head in that direction, Draco once again became aware of the absence of noise normally found in the ruins. Yet, this silence held a watchfulness to it, and Draco shivered as he practically felt eyes upon him. Realising just how far he had travelled, following the shadowy figure, Draco worried for the first time that he would be unable to find his way back to the hotel.

Just as Draco was withdrawing his leg and preparing to find his way back, another sound came to his ears, from the right this time. A weird rustling sound, as though there were things crawling in the shadows he had yet to see.

With a curious sense of detachment, Draco watched as the fine blond hairs on his arms rose, to stand on end, quivering. Somehow intuiting what was happening, Draco lifted his gaze in time to see a black object heading straight for his face.

Pain exploded along his jaw, and Draco fell like a ragdoll, backwards, over the side of the stone he'd just climbed, to fall, rolling, bounced over harsh bricks and jagged edges. After what felt an eternity he came to a halt, body limp and bleeding, on the floor of the derelict street.

Rough hands grabbed at his torn black jumper, ripping the worn material even more, as they attempted to get a good handhold. Rising jerkily off the ground, Draco experienced weightlessness for the first time since he'd last ridden a broomstick, as the men succeeded in lifting him into the air. Hard knuckles drove the air from his lungs, making him cough and hack involuntarily. Hard, solid, stone slammed into his back, and the shimmer of metal brought some light to the shadows that encompassed everything now.

Eyes rolling upwards, Draco was only vaguely aware of the burning agony caused by the blade when it was shoved into his stomach, and the even vaguer thought, 'that was a waste of pain, they should have done that sooner - maximum effect'.

It was the absence of hands that brought him momentarily back to sensibility, and the chorus of thuds and grunts in the background brought a slight smile to his face. Humming along to the sounds, Draco let his head fall backwards, resting on possibly the only solid wall in this area. A slight frown creased his brow when the music stopped, but the pain from that small movement soon made him cease it.

Out of the shadows came a hand. A gentle hand, tilting his face to daub at the blood trickling down his cheek, feeling oddly like tears. A capable hand, feeling his body for wounds, applying pressure, desperately needed, to his stomach. Merciful hands, cradling his limp form, and taking him to safety.

Weary of the lies, the fighting, the fear. Always the fear. Draco allowed the darker grasps of fatigue to pull him down, trusting his body to the hands of a stranger. And on his hand, the silver ring glinted though no light touched its smooth countenance.

****

Quite short, I know - me sorry! Still, I didn't want to overdo this chapter, in case that ruined it (god I've been using that word a lot in this fic!)

Anyway - if you don't understand all of the undertones in this chapter/fic, don't worry, it should become clearer later on (I hope).

So, please R&R, and let me know what you think! chocolate cake to those who review [you should know by now, I am not above bribery to get what I want]


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